Sunday 28 August 2011

Just a thought

You say I have no faith
But then you have no reason
So I guess, in a way
We are both rather even

Sunday 7 August 2011

The day I got referred to in the letters section of the paper ...

http://www.timesofmalta.com/articles/view/20110806/letters/Room-where-to-stand-and-cheer-in-gigs.378958

Wednesday 3 August 2011

Tardy Town {a glimpse}

The mysterious circumstances pertaining to the town christened Tardy, and all that followed.

At precisely 3 o’clock in the dead of a chilly Thursday night in December, the St. Sanctus church bell sounded across the little town of Tardy. Precisely seven people in the town were still awake that night and thus were the few who heard the bell’s clangourous hollow din reverberating from its mount in the Church tower.

Raymond Rechid was one of the seven not yet claimed by the realm of sleep, and truth be told Raymond had no choice but to hear the bell’s clamour, as he was Tardy town’s staunch bell-ringer.

While the mass of Tardy town’s inhabitants were tucked soundly in bed, Raymond would nightly make his way to the Church - a short two streets walk from his unintended bachelor abode - turn the bulky rusting key in the old wooden Church tower door, and there he would carry-out his appointed duty of the ringing of the bell. As St. Sanctus’ sole subservient, Raymond was also appointed to be dreary daily altar server, lonesome aisle sweeper, makeshift pallbearer and unavoidable-if-undesired gravedigger.

In comparison to these humdrum chores, he simply relished ringing the town bell; the thud of the clapper against the bell’s inner rim, the pouring of sound all around him filling the tower to its brim, the quivering sensation eddying down the bell’s rope through his hands.

He knew the bell so intimately that with just the slightest flick of the wrist he could direct the clapper to the bell’s sweetest spots, allowing for differing degrees in the sound’s tonality and texture to resonate and reverberate across the town. For those two or three minutes each night Raymond Rechid ceased to be a sad thirty-six year old bachelor whose only purpose in life was to perform St. Sanctus church’s dirty work. He transformed into a conjurer of sound; a straight-backed and not so socially shunned kindred spirit of Quasimodo.

Fr. Dione, the parish priest, grimaced at the tolling of the bell. Perched like an old balding vulture at the end of his bed, Fr. Dione’s reason for being awake at such an ungodly hour was not out of any pious religious devotion. Quite simply it was Fr. Dione who paid Raymond Rechid’s weekly wages out of the St. Sanctus’ daily monetary gatherings. And quite simply, if Raymond was to miss any one of his never-ending appointed church duties, Fr. Dione would, with a feeling of relief befitting any miserly old man, refuse to pay Raymond his entitled sum; a sum that even an ordinary Tardy town child would scoff at.

Somewhat grudgingly, Fr. Dione picked up his thumb-sized graphite pencil from his bedside table and crossed the Thursday night box off his scrutinisingly extensive Rechid’s weekly performance checklist. Pulling back the stiff as cardboard bed sheets, he crawled underneath for some well needed shuteye.

Zucchero ~ MFCC, Ta' Qali, 30/07/2011


{Published in The Times of Malta, 03/08/2011}

Zucchero... with no spice


Surrounded by a metallic warehouse, a skeletal globe-like construction, and a stadium floodlight looming imposingly above, the MFCC open air grounds comes across more like a top secret military hangar than a venue fit for a music concert. But as the bustling crowd shuffled down the aisles into their allocated seats, the lit-up Chocabeck tour stage-set offered a tad more spectacle: tower bells and violet balloons hanging like clusters of grapes against a backdrop of archways overseeing golden barley fields.

With the release of latest album Chocabeck, Zucchero has been met with a renewal of credibility in the motherland. The supporting tour sees the Italian rock and blues artist return to Malta with his travelling caravan of 11 musicians for his third concert here.

It takes a particularly Italian mix of coolness and braggadocio for a singer to walk out on stage in front of an amassed crowd and plonk himself casually on a throne nonetheless, without showing any sign of shamefacedness. But sit himself on a throne Zucchero did, almost humbly if that’s even possible, and with two guitar wielding minstrels on either side of him the concert began in laid-back acoustic mode. New songs Il Suono della Domenica and Soldati nella mia Città sounded intricately lush and heartfelt.

“Malta, stand up!” yelled the Sugar man over the euphoric string motif and pounding bass drum intro of recent hit single Vedo Nero; the first upbeat number of the night. This directive specifically addressed to the audience majority in the seated sections, who up until that point had been diligently giving their feet a rest, got most standing but by no means all. God forbid someone should see them actually enjoying themselves. The shame!

As the evening progressed, the atmosphere remained ostensibly flat. Just when Zu and band built a bit of momentum it was smothered almost immediately with another string of slowies. The frequent sitting and standing made it hard for even the more enthusiastic of the crowd to get a feel-good vibe going.

Pointless inclusions of pre-recorded backing vocals and beefed up percussion to help replicate the records live, only served to kill any hint of thrilling spontaneity. And quite why the keyboardist took on horn sounding solos when there was a three-piece horn section on stage is anyone’s guess. Only during Con le Mani was the saxophonist finally given room to let loose; the performance sounding all the better for it.

Diavolo in Me, with its mock-Gospel opening and blues-rock groove, was a brief flash of good ol’ fashioned fun. Zucchero, now sporting a Machiavellian impish mask, judiciously worked the crowd, hitting those vocal Joe Cocker-esque heights with aplomb.

But if there is a lesson to be learnt from Zucchero’s concert, it is that if you want a Maltese audience to go absolutely mental, simply play them a bit of opera. A few seconds into encore Miserere, which featured the voice and image of late great Italian tenor Pavarotti via the big screen projection, and people were stumbling to their feet faster than it would have taken the big man to wolf down a dish of tortellini.

The crowd just about all stayed put and danced the funky gallo in the final Per Colpa di Chi, which saw the night off in good enough spirits. Staunch defenders of Italian music may claim it was the best thing since Italian TV discovered the Wonderbra, but for the rest it was no more than an OK night out.